


To Love (And be Loved by Me)

by orphan_account



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Fisherman!Q, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Strangers to Lovers, not really set in fillory but it could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23899726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Quentin Coldwater is a fisherman. He spends his days hauling in nets along the shore of the cottage where he was born. He's content.A ghostly man in a three-piece suit makes him think otherwise.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 16
Kudos: 53





	To Love (And be Loved by Me)

**Author's Note:**

> "It was many and many a year ago,  
> In a kingdom by the sea,  
> That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
> By the name of Annabel Lee;  
> And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
> Than to love and be loved by me."  
> -Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
> 
> *
> 
> Hello! This is my first fic for The Magicians fandom! I had been writing for other fandoms before and was on a bit of a break, but now more than ever feels like the right time to get back into it! And what better fandom to start writing for than my new comfort show! Anyways, I hope you enjoy! This is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine! (Also, while writing this I listened to Matthew Gray Gubler read 'Annabel Lee' about a hundred times and I definitely suggest you do as well).

Upon the farthest end of the kingdoms North shore, a cottage sits perched upon the coast. Its body, old yet built to last, leans precariously to the left from years of battling against the rough ocean storms, hardwood planks infused with a saltwater brine. Not large by any means, the cottage and its worn wood hold up against the seasons. Warming kindly in the summer; stark and grey in the winter. No matter the weather, the cottage remains a quiet constant.

Along the shore below the cottage that he has called home his whole life, Quentin Coldwater hauls in his fishing nets for the day.

Waves gently lap at the already salt-damaged leather of his boots as Quentin adjusts his grip on the ropes in his hands. Thankful for the callouses that have built up on his palms from years of work, Quentin can bring the nets up to where he wants them with one sharp tug. Dropping the rest of the net into the sand, he crouches down and begins to untangle and fold the woollen fishnet.

His nimble fingers work quickly, undoing any knots that aren’t supposed to be there. Quentin is carefully folding the net into a neat square when a familiar teasing voice interrupts him.

“Bad catch today?”

Hardly surprised by the interruption, Quentin stands. He turns and is greeted by an amused smile. He wipes his hands on his pant legs, lips quirking into a grin of his own as he watches his blow-in guests face scrunch at the action.

“Only just,” Quentin responds. “A storm is coming.”

The taller of the two hums, dragging his eyes away from Quentin to gaze out at the sea, giving Quentin the perfect opportunity to study the man before him.

He had appeared for the first time nearly a month ago, wandering along the sandy shore just as Quentin had finished packing in for the evening. At first, Quentin had thought him to be a ghost, the spirit of a soul lost at sea like in the tales his grandfather used to tell him. It had only made sense, given the man’s appearance. Hauntingly pale, dark curls wisping around his strong jaw and piercing eyes that had startled Quentin into tripping over his own feet.

In Quentin’s mind, he had to have been a ghost. There was no other explanation as to why someone who was obviously a nobleman, dressed in a three-piece suit made out of the finest materials Quentin could hardly even name, would be strolling along the shore of a small fisherman’s cottage.

He was wrong.

El’s eyes cut back to Quentin sharply, a glint in his eyes. “Will you try again tomorrow?”

“No,” Quentin swallows. Something rests just behind El’s eyes, swimming restlessly. Waiting. Bright and boring into Quentin’s core. “Waters will be too dangerous.”

“Pity.” El hums.

Turning back to his nets, Quentin works to pull his last one up the shore. If only to have something to stop his hands from fidgeting uselessly under the scrutiny of El’s knowing looks. He can hear the nobleman move closer, the rich sound of sand crunching underfoot drawing nearer. 

“I suppose that means I should forgo my usual walks along the shore in the days to come.” El poses, voice carefully neutral even to Quentin’s untrained ear.

“I suppose.” Quentin grunts, hefting the net over to rest next to the others already piled on the sand.

Silence hangs in the air and a sinking feeling forms in Quentin’s gut. Now he’s done it. El’s going to leave, Quentin’s curtness driving him away. He’ll go and never cross the path of the cottages shore again.

A moment passes. Then another. The silence lingering between the two of them, save for the sounds of El’s breathing and the coarse cords of net shifting through Quentin’s fingers. 

El doesn’t leave. Instead, he circles until he is once again standing in front of Quentin. He pauses, the slightest hint of something unrecognizable, before bending to snap up the other end of the net Quentin has been struggling to fold.

“You best get these packed up quickly then.” He says, shaking out the sand from the net before carefully crossing it over on itself.

Quentin can’t move. El’s action has thrown his brain through a hoop. The contrasting sight of the nobleman, donned in the flawless greens and golds of his tailored suit, working dutifully to help Quentin with his fishing nets has left him at a loss for anything to say. How easy it was, for El to simply pick up the net and start to help. He hardly seemed to have thought about it. He just did.

They work together in silence. This time the quiet feels comfortable, not weighing heavily on Quentin’s chest. Together, folding up the net until it rests in a neat square atop the others.

El pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes at his hands before offering the cloth to Quentin. He accepts with a nod, cleaning off his own hands and taking mental note of how soft the fabric was against his sea-worn hands. He motions to hand it back, but El dismisses it with a flick of his hand.

“Keep it.” He looks at Quentin curiously. “As a gift.”

Quentin looks down at the hanky in his hand, gently rubbing the material between his thumb and forefinger. The soft cream colour of the fabric is now lightly smudged with dirt. Of course, Quentin thinks, El wouldn’t want it back now that he’d tarnished it. Still, Quentin meets El’s eyes and smiles at him.

“Thank you,” He nods again. Tucking the token into his back pocket. “Goodnight, El.”

“Goodnight, Quentin,” El responds but makes no move to walk away.

Bending to scoop up his neatly folded nets, Quentin straightens to drape them over his arm. He casts a look at El, who remains watching him as if he knows everything that’s running through Quentin’s head.

“El, I,” Quentin stammers, cutting himself off. What is he to say to this man he hardly knows anything about, only a name and the fact he’s stations above one Quentin Coldwater.

“Yes, Q?”

Q. The familiarity that resonates through the single letter rings deep inside the part of Quentin’s lonely, hungry brain that wants for more. So much more.

“Monday. That’s when I’ll be going out again, in case you were wondering. The storm should pass by then. Either way, I’ll be out there. The Crown is to be collecting their taxes soon. They should have already been out this way, but I’m not complaining about the extra time. The storms have made it a slow season this year.” Quentin manages to fumble out, rambling on to fight against the part of his mind that desperately wants to just ask El to call him Q over and over like a sirens song.

El’s mouth twitches up at the corners, eyes sparkling. “Monday it is then.”

Nodding eagerly, Quentin steps back towards the cottage path, clutching his nets like a lifeline. “Monday.” 

With a nod and a teasing smirk, El turns, sauntering back down the shore the same way he arrived.

Quentin tracks his retreat until El disappears onto the trail that leads to the main travelling road. Once his figure is out of view Quentin lets out a long breath he can’t remember taking.  
Adjusting his hold on the fishing net, casting them over his shoulder, Quentin begins his trek up back to the cottage. The path is steep, but each step of it is burned into Quentin’s mind. Where best to step to make the journey easiest. Where to avoid unless you want a boot full of mud. Quentin has been walking this path since he was a boy, the routine is easy to fall into.

Reaching the cottage, Quentin stops and closes his eyes. The evening breeze is cold and he lets it wash over him, cooling his sweat tacky skin and soothing the burning in his calves. Inhaling deep through his nose, Quentin rolls his shoulders and continues. The red evening sky giving way to dusk as he pushes his way through the cottage door, letting the nets drop off his shoulder and onto the floor.

The cottage emits a chill, its old boards cooling with the night. Quentin grabs a box of matches from the cupboard, striking one swiftly and dropping it into the pile of kindling he set up in the fireplace that morning. The hearth grows warm, casting its fire sweet glow to every corner of the cottage.

Grabbing a portion of bread and a bowl of leftover stew, Quentin slumps down at the table in the center of the cottages living area. Propping his feet up on one of the empty chairs next to him, Quentin finally lets the weight of the day glide down his back. Like his father and his grandfather before him, Quentin fishes the North shore of their fair and great kingdom. That’s how they made their name, Coldwater, by being the only family to withstand fishing in the freezing waters of the Northern sea. In return, they had the sure sale of all the merchants in the area. However, to do so required waking with the dawn and leaving with the sunset. It’s tough work, but Quentin always used to make due sharing the weight of it all with his father.

Now Quentin works alone.

Alone, with the exception of visits from a certain nobleman.

Shifting on his chair, Quentin pulls the handkerchief El gave him out of his pocket and sets it down on the table in front of him.

The other man continued to be an enigma to Quentin, leaving him with more questions than answers every time they crossed paths. How had he wound up on Quentin’s little patch of land in the first place? Seemingly out of nowhere in his ghost-like glory. Why had he returned once, twice, then again and again? Graciously offering Quentin his name and a smile, even when Quentin offered hardly anything in return in terms of conversation. A man of noble blood such as El has no real reason to haunt the North shores of the Coldwater property. 

Yet he does.

Quentin can find no reason to be upset by that.

How could he? Quentin aches in his solitary life by the sea. His mind his only company for days on end, dragging him to deeper darker places than his fishing boat does. He finds himself simply going through the motions, his creaking, popping bones protest against every movement he makes from the moment he gets up to the second he falls asleep. 

El, in the brief moments they share during Quentin’s day, makes everything a bit more interesting. A bit more alive. He brings with him pallets of greens, purples, golds and silvers. An enigmatic splash of colour bursting amidst the choppy greys and blues of Quentin’s day-to-day. 

Even a mere fisherman like Quentin would not be so foolhardy to dismiss his visits from El. Not when he’s come to look forward to them so. 

Quentin tucks the handkerchief back into his pocket, shaking his head and standing, finished with his meal for the evening. He busies himself with gathering up his empty bowl and cup, trying to dispel all thoughts of El from his mind. It will do him no good, to dwell on thoughts of his persistent visitant.

The windows of the cottage rattle and Quentin peeks out to watch the churning sea swell with the oncoming storm. 

He hadn’t been lying to El earlier, the storms have been more frequent this season than they have for some time and Quentin fears the effect it will have on his trades with the local merchants. 

With a heavy sigh, Quentin pulls his blinds shut and turns to strip and climb into his bed. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on how good it feels to be off his feet, body sinking into his thin mattress. He tries no to think of how this storm will set him behind schedule a few more days than he’d like and how he’ll have to cast twice as many nets in the upcoming weeks.

He tries to convince himself that’s the only thing he’s upset about.

\--------------------

The storm rages through, leaving the shores covered in slimy seaweed that Quentin has to pick his way through in the early hours Monday morning. Luckily his boat is still in the place where he beached her before the storm, so Quentin loads in his nets and pushes her into the water.

“Come on, Jane,” Quentin mumbles. Mostly to himself, partially to the boat herself. “We have a busy day.”

It was the end of Quentin’s day, as usual, that El made his appearance.

“Staying dry, I hope.” El greets.  
“Unsuccessfully,” Quentin replies, tossing aside an empty bait bucket.

El smiles, levelling Quentin with a look as if Quentin had just completed the punchline to a joke he wasn’t even privy to. Something swirls in Quentin’s stomach at the look, like a school of butterfish, swimming around his gut. Words die on his tongue as Quentin desperately searches for something to say. The look is an invitation, a request for wit and banter. The urge to deliver nearly outweighs Quentin’s rusty people skills.

“I bet you’re glad the storm has passed.” El continues, and just like that the moment passes and Quentin is back to cleaning out his fishing boat as El looks on at the sea.

It becomes a routine, rather than sporadic drop-ins. El shows up every evening just in time to watch Quentin haul in his nets and clear out his boat. The taller man will stand and gaze out onto the water or watch him work, making light chatter as Quentin tries to force his lead tongue to respond.

So, it causes worry to stir in Quentin’s mind when one evening a fortnight into their new unspoken pattern, that El doesn’t show up.

Quentin has finished untangling and folding all his nets. He’s scrubbed Jane of her barnacles and scooped the excess water from her shallow hull. The sky is a deep maroon, transitioning from dusk to dark as Quentin thinks that he should have seen this coming.

He should have known. It was too good. El and his company. It made sense that the nobleman would eventually grow bored, get tired of having one-way conversations. Quentin should have known.

Hefting his nets upon his shoulder, Quentin clutches onto them dearly, swallowing past the thick lump in his throat as he begins his walk home. It will be fine, he’s been working here alone far longer than he has had El’s company. He just let himself get too comfortable, too reliant, too hopeful on the fact that maybe El would-

“Q!” 

The call stops him short, and as quickly as he can with the nets weighing him down, Quentin turns.

It’s El. Of course it is, who else would it be? But, there’s something about him this evening that throws Quentin off. Perhaps it’s the way his hair is a mess. Dishevelled, as if he’d been running his hands through it all day. Or that his chest is heaving with big, laborious breaths as if he’d been running. Or maybe it’s the way El’s usually bright eyes are tired and glassy. Lines of worry and stress taught around his lips. A tick in his jaw.

Are you okay? Quentin thinks. “You’re late,” He says instead.

El nods, opening his mouth only to pause, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Q, I need you to understand-” He stops again.

Quentin tightens his grip on his nets, watching the changing looks that flit across El’s face. The taller man sighs, sadly almost. Resigned. Quenten watched him bring a hand up to rub across his jaw, El’s eyes catching on the cottage in the near distance before settling on Quentin yet again.

“I could use a drink.” He proffers.

Quentin bites the inside of his cheek. “I have wine.”

“Perfect. Lead the way.”

They walk in an easy silence up to the cottage, Quentin quietly mumbling warnings to El as they go up the steep path. As they near, Quentin it doused in a sudden wave of nerves. El showed up, he’s here and from his tone of voice down on the beach whatever he has to say is serious. The presence of the other man following behind him now feels looming instead of comforting.

The door to the cottage creaks when Quentin pushes it open, letting El step in first before he closes it behind them, unceremoniously drops his fishing nets to the floor.

El makes no move to hide the way he’s inspecting the cottage. Quentin doesn’t mind. He knows El comes from higher standings, but Quentin does not doubt that El would ever judge him for where he lives.

Quentin moves further into the cottage, letting El look his fill. He grabs his matches and crouches to light the hearth fire. As the small flames spark to life, Quentin levers himself back up, looking over his shoulder to find El watching him.

Clearing his throat, Quentin gestures to his small eating table. “Please, sit. I’ll gather the wine.”

El nods, dropping gracefully into one of the old wooden chairs. Quentin can still feel the nobleman’s gaze on him as he fetches two cups from his cupboards and as he retrieves a forgotten bottle of pomegranate wine from under his washing basin.

Placing the cups down on the table, Quentin uncorks the wine, pouring two generous glasses before pushing one in front of El and taking his seat behind the other.

El raises his cup in a silent toast before taking a long swill of the wine. Quentin watches, tracking the stretch of El throat momentarily, before blinking his eyes away, taking a sip from his glass.

“Have you ever wondered,” El muses aloud, setting it now near-empty cup back down. “What it would be like to have magic?”

Quentin grabs the wine, topping up El’s cup as he processes the unexpected line of questioning. “Haven’t we all? At one point or another?” 

El nods thankfully, bringing the newly filled cup to his lips. “Think of what might be done. If one possessed magic.” El’s words trail off, his eyes suddenly far away.

The wine is tart on Quentin’s lips as he takes a slow pull. How many times in the past had he asked himself that same question? If only he had magic, then what couldn’t he do? Quentin has spent nights upon nights wired awake thinking of the ‘what ifs’. 

“What are you getting at, El?” Quentin eventually asks, breaking the silence of the room.

“I wish I had magic, Quentin. If only then I could use it to change the fate I’m stuck in.” El spits, bitter as the wine they drink. Quentin is taken aback, not by the anger, but the layers of desperation lacing El’s words.

“I’m not sure that’s how magic works, El.” Quentin tries to placate.

Setting his cup down on the table, El gestures widely with his arms. “Then enlighten me, Q. How do you think magic works? If not to grant our wishes and make life marginally less horrible?”

Quentin presses his lips together, “I’d say magic would work a lot like love. You have to put hard work into it, meet it halfway. It will lift you up, but won’t do all the work for you. It won’t make your problems disappear.”

El laughs mirthlessly, bringing an arm up to rest on the table, leaning across towards Quentin. “You know what I think, Q?” The air hangs tensely between them as El continues, “I think you’re wrong. I think magic would be a lot more like pain. The more you have, the more you can draw from it. Everything that has power comes from pain, Q.”

“Yes,” Quentin starts, staring down into his cup before tilting his head up to meet El’s frantic eyes. “But everything worthwhile comes from love.”

At his words El seems to deflate, slumping down into his chair without an ounce of the poise he previously held.

“Oh, Q.” He huffs, so fondly that Quentin can’t help but smile. “You must be careful, that optimism of yours is dangerous.”

“El. What is this really about? You didn’t come here just to discuss the hypotheticals of magic with me, did you?.” Quentin prods. His fingers twitch with the want to reach out and cover El’s where they rest on the table. 

El picks up his wine again, swirling it around in his cup before speaking. “No, you’re right. I didn’t. I came to you because I was handed a decision about my future and I was at a crossroads of what to do. I think I know now though.”

Quentin perks up in his seat, “Yeah?” Had something he said truly helped El? 

A quirk of his lips, “Yeah.” El reasserts. Rising from his seat, El lifts his cup and drains the rest of his wine with one large mouthful, placing the cup back on the table once he’s done. “I best be going now. Thank you, Q.”

Scrambling to stand, Q follows behind El in the three long strides it takes him to reach the cottage door.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright leaving now?” Quentin asks. “It’s rather dark outside now and-”

El stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Warmth floods Q at the point of contact, El’s hand squeezes him gently. His hand moves up just so, now resting on the curved juncture between Quentin’s shoulder and throat, El’s thumb just barely brushing along Quentin’s jaw.

“I’ll be fine, Q. You don’t have to worry, okay?” El says soothingly, thumb making another brush along Quentin’s jaw.

Quentin nods, blinking as he frantically soaks in the sight before him. El’s tender eyes, warmed by the glow of the fire that casts angular shadows across his already regal face.

“Quentin,” El starts, voice softer than he has ever heard it before as if he’s afraid to break the atmosphere that’s been created around the two of them. “Can I kiss you?”

Quentin is reeling. The heat of El’s body standing so close to his. The look in his eyes as he surveys Quentin’s face. The pressure of his thumb from here it now rests behind his ear. Words fail him for the thousandth time around El, so Quentin nods, hoping to convey how badly that - yes, yes, yes - he wants El to kiss him.

El chuckles, deep and rich. “Are you certain? I’m not very much in the habit of kissing those who do not wish to be kissed, you know.”

“Yes,” Quentin croaks. “El. Please just kiss me.”

Using the hand cupping his neck, El draws Quentin in. “Well, if you insist.”

Then they’re kissing. El’s lips taste of the wine they’d been drinking. The dark bittersweetness of pomegranates filling Quentin’s senses, mixed with something so uniquely El that Quentin feels consumed by the heat of it all. El’s hand rests hot along the line of his throat, pulling Quentin into the kiss deeper as his other hand comes slipping up underneaths Quentin’s shirt, resting on the small of his back. Quentin’s hands grab at the material of the front of El’s jacket in fistfuls, clambering to pull him ever closer.

A strangled whimper of a moan forces it’s way out of the back of Quentin’s throat, the noise spurring El on even more. It’s hot and sweet and bitter and so, so, much more than Quentin had ever let himself want when thinking of El.

El breaks the kiss, drawing back slowly, hands lingering where the rest on Quentin’s skin. Quentin watches him, dazed. How long had it been since he’s been kissed? Had he ever even been kissed like that before? Either way, Quentin decides, it’s been far too long and after tasting El’s lips he doesn’t think he’ll be able to go without them again.

“I’ll be on time tomorrow,” El tells him. “There’s something I wish to tell you, but I have to take care of something tonight first.”

Quentin nods. He lets go of El’s shirt, trying fruitlessly to smooth out some of the wrinkles he left there. “You know where to find me.”

“Yes,” El smiles, stepping back and opening the door. “I do.”

With that, El steps out into the night, the dark blanket of night enveloping his figure much too quickly for Quentin’s liking. His departing words hang in the air of the cottage. Weighted with the promise of more. Of what, Quentin isn’t exactly sure.

If he’s being honest, he hopes it’s more kisses.

\--------------------

Dawn brings with it misty grey skies and constant drizzling of light rain. Quentin breathes deeply, the scent of the rain mixing with the seawater and fresh earth washing over him.

Marching down to the shore, he plans to get the nets out as quickly as possible, just in case the light rain decides to turn into a storm later on. Tossing the nets onto the boat, he notices a few of them need their nettings repaired and makes mental note to venture into town afterwards to purchase materials for the minor mending.

He gets Jane out onto the water easily enough, but the trouble today lies in casting the nets. The tenacious waves lap at his little fishing boat eagerly, swaying her back and forth. Quentin grits his teeth and steels himself on the slippery deck, winding back to cast his nets far into the ocean grey.

It takes him longer than usual, the rocky waters mixed with the distracting loop of El’s kiss playing in his head make for slow work, but Quentin still makes it back in time to go to the market before he has to begin his other duties in maintaining the grounds.

The walk to the nearest towns market it peaceful and Quentin always savours it, especially on days like this one. The rain makes the forest path a lush green and the crunch of wet earth under his feet is kindly grounding on his sea legs. 

With his messenger bag slung across one shoulder and his hair tied back with a scrap of leftover twine, Quentin drifts into town looking as presentable as the young hermit who lives in the sea cottage can look. He picks his way through the merchants’ booths, nodding in greeting to those he knows. It’s the booth tucked away between the baker and the knife makers that Quentin has his sights set on. As he nears, the brown-haired girl slumped over the counter sits up and waves him over.

“Quentin!”

“Hello, Julia,” he smiles. 

Julia was, arguably, his only friend. Having grown up with his father doing business with hers, Quentin had always gotten the pleasure of knowing one Julia Wicker. She’s kind, smart as a whip and has never made Quentin feel like an outsider. He’s damn lucky to have her.

“What are you after today, Coldwater?” She questions. “Let me guess, some delicate silk hair ties?”

Quentin laughs, shaking his head. “Not today, unfortunately, my order is much less exciting. Several wool chords to mend my nets, please, Miss. Wicker.”

Julia clicks her tongue, giving him a look of mock disappointment. She shakes her head but moves to collect the chords anyways.

“Have you heard the news yet, Q?” She asks as she bustles around the booth. 

“News? About what?” He asks, leaning back against the counter. Julia, along with being his friend and main material vendor, is his number once source to find out what’s going on around the kingdom.

“The High King is finally getting married! It was announced yesterday.” She divulges before dropping her voice into a low, almost conspiratorial whisper as she passes Quentin his chords. “Rumor has it though that he’s not very happy about it. A real uproar from the High Queen on his behalf.”

Quentin hums. He’s never been overly invested in the happenings of the rulers of the kingdom. He knows of them only by title, never having set eyes on either of the reigning monarchs. For Quentin, as long as he paid his property taxes on collection day he was fine just living the bubble of the cottage. 

“Good for him.”

Julia quirks an eyebrow, “I guess. Aren’t you the least bit interested, Q?”

He shrugs, “Not really. You know me, Jules.”

“I do,” she sighs. “That’s why I gave you two extra chords, you always underestimate things, Q.”

Digging the coins he owns her out of his bag, Quentin drops them into her palm, before leaning over the counter to peck her on the cheek. “Thanks, Jules.”

“You’re welcome, Q.” She smiles, swatting him away goodnaturedly. “You have to come to town again soon and stay for dinner. There’s a lot more we need to talk about.”

He gives her a grin and a wave, tucking the chords into his bag, not explicitly agreeing to any plans. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he never ends up having enough time to spare and he’ll have to cancel and let Julia down. So, it’s better to just make no plans at all.

The rainfall lightens a bit on his walk home, now more of a foggy mist. Refreshing and chilled to the touch. Quentin uses the time to wonder about what El wants to tell him today. The way he had spoken makes Quentin think it has to be serious. Quentin has never been a fan of serious conversations, finding they always end too one-sided. His gut twists. With luck whatever El comes to tell him will be something good that they can deal with. Together.

Quentin makes it back to the cottage with time to grab a spot of lunch before he has to go and complete his list of laborious duties. He can hardly tell how fast time passes once he begins his work. With the dull clouds hiding away the sun, his chores all bleed together in a swirl of grey. It’s not until the wind picks up, tossing the loose strands of his hair about, that Quentin notices the darkening of the sky; signalling it as the time to pull his nets in for the day.

It would be a familiar sight for anyone passing by that time of day. Quentin, reeling his nets upon the shore, cleaned of their catch and ready to be stored until the cycle beings anew.  
“Quentin.”

El. Dropping his net, Quentin turns to greet him. 

It is truly remarkable, Quentin muses, how often he gets taken aback by the mere sight of the other man. For once again, Quentin has to wonder if El is not an otherworldly vision. 

His tall figure is stark against the sombre sky, dark hair curling from the rain and mist. Unkempt yet still exuding an unbridled elegance one only reads about in poetry. El is stunning in every sense of the word.

El strides forward, eyes flicking about in a manner that immediately puts Quentin on edge. “El,” Quentin begins. “Are you-”

“I have to ask you something. It’s going to be insane, but I need you to answer me.” El interjects, eyes locking onto Quentin’s face, staring at him intently.

“El,” Quentin pushes. “What’s happening? Are you alright?”

“Will you leave with me?” El asks instead, urgent and breathless.

Quentin goes stock-still. Can feel himself gaping at El. Confusion and disbelief seeping into his bones. “What are you talking about? Leave to where El? What’s going on?”

With a frustrated groan, El pushes his hands through his hair in a manner that makes Quentin wince. He doesn’t understand. What has El so nervous that he’s proposing they run away? Why is he asking Quentin to leave with him for that matter? The thoughts fly through Quentin’s mind as El steps closer to him and reaches out to place his hands on Quentin’s shoulders.

“Please, Q. Trust me. I have a plan, I just need you. Leave this kingdom with me.” El pleads, a hopeful eager smile on his face.

Quentin shakes his head, “El, I-” He pauses, looking around them. At the sea. At Jane and his nets forgotten on the ground. “This is my home, El.”

“Is it? Or is it where you were born? Where we are planted is not necessarily where we shall grow, Q.” El implores.

Before Quentin has the time to respond, an authoritative voice echoes along the shore.

“His Majesty!”

A palace guard stands just up the shore, looking cautiously at the scene unfolding between the two men. For one delirious moment, Quentin wonders if he’s here to collect his taxes, but then he registers what he had said and takes in the way the guard’s eyes are trained on El.

Majesty.

El’s eyes fall shut, a bitter look of defeat on his face. His hands return to his sides as he straightens his posture and turning so now they both have their attention trained on their conversations intruder.

“A moment please, Soren,” El calls out, a tone of authority in his voice that Quentin has never heard from him before.

Majesty.

The guard nods. “Of course, Your Highness. But, please, it is required that the sovereign wear their crown at all times.” He reaches into a satchel at his side and pulls out the most intricate piece of finery that Quentin has ever seen. Twisted gold and ebony metals inlaid with deep red gems. The crown of a king.

El extends one hand out and the guard dutifully passes the crown over. He turns the metal over in his hands, eyes cast downwards as he shifts his body back in front of Quentin.

Quentin swallows. “You’re him. High King Eliot. You lied to me.” The words feel punched out of his lungs. 

It was bad enough when El was just a nobleman pleading with Quentin to run away with him, but suddenly now he was the High King. Everything Quentin though he was starting to understand about the other man was wrong. He feels furious to have been lied to, tricked in such a way, but he also feels distressed to think that this could all have been some bit of fun for Eliot. He can’t believe he was so stupid.

“I didn’t lie. Not exactly. I just gave you a shortened version of my name and you didn’t recognize me.” Eliot reasons, a false layer of bravado edging in on his voice. He looks up from the crown in his hands and there is something still so desperate in his eyes that it’s Quentin turn to look away.

“It was nice,” Eliot admits, so quietly that Quentin has to strain to hear him. “To be seen for more than my title. I think you understand how that feels.”

And he does. Oh, how Quentin knows the longing that comes from wanted to be something else- something more- than just the title you’ve been given.

Fisherman. King. Perhaps the two are more alike than Quentin once thought.

“Your Majesty.” The guard calls again.

“A moment,” Eliot repeats, not taking his eyes off Quentin. “Look, I’ll return here tonight once darkness has fallen. I have a plan to leave. I’ve worked it all out and Margo is helping me from the inside. I just need you. Please, Q. I’ll be waiting here tonight. If you don’t show up I’ll understand, I will. Just remember what I said. We are more than our birthrights.”

Eliot takes a step back and Quentin is frozen.

He watches Eliot retreat, watches him look back over his shoulder at Quentin with tender, searching eyes. Quentin remains frozen until Eliot and his guard vanish from his sight.

Quentin’s body begins to work from memory. He finishes hauling in and folding the nets. He makes sure Jane is secure far up on the beach. He climbs the path to the cottage.

In the cottage that he has always called home, perched upon the Northern shore of the kingdom, Quentin Coldwater packs his bag and waits for nightfall.

\--------------------

Many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea,  
A fisherman’s cottage once passed down stood proud for all to see.  
The nets no longer get cast out;  
And the hearth dark as can be-  
But a circlet of gold left upon a table of old,  
Marks the sign of lovers free.

**Author's Note:**

> The end! Thank you all so much for reading! This kind of turned into a beast while I was writing it, haha. I hope you enjoyed it! Please drop a kudos and leave a comment if you did! I'd love to hear some feedback or just what you liked about the fic! I was trying a different sort of storytelling with this one so sorry if it was a little weird!  
> Come visit me over on Tumblr @newnewduckberg if you have any questions, wanna say hi, or wish to stay updated on my future writings! I definitely will be writing for these two again and I already have some ideas in store!  
> Cheers!


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